in elsewhere. It was one of my few entertainments this foraging
after inexpensive dinners, and watching and listening to other diners.
At that time my prejudices were the exact antithesis of those that
came later on, and I preferred foreign restaurants and foreign service
and cooking, quite apart from the fact that I found them nearly always
cheaper and more entertaining than the native varieties.

It was in a dingy little French eating-house near Wardour Street
(where I must say the cooking at that time really was skilful, though
I dare say the material used was villainously bad, since the prices
charged were low, even judged by my scale in such matters) that I
first made the acquaintance of Sidney Heron. I felt sure that Heron
must be a remarkable man, even before I spoke to him, or heard him
speak, for he lived with a monocle fixed in his right eye, and never
moved it, even when he blew his nose and gesticulated violently, as he
so often did. The monocle was attached to a broad black ribbon which,
in some way, seemed grotesque as contrasted with the dingy greyish-white
flannel cricketing shirts which Heron always wore, with a red
tie under the collar. Linen in any guise he clearly scorned. I do not
think his boots were ever cleaned, and he appeared to spend even less
upon clothing than I did. I do not know just how he disposed of his
money, but he earned two hundred or three hundred a year as a writer,
and he was invariably short of funds. I think it quite conceivable
that he may have maintained some poor relation or relations, but in
all the years of our acquaintance I never heard him mention a
relative. He certainly lived poorly himself.

Our acquaintance resulted from his tipping a rum omelette into my lap.
The tables at this little restaurant were exceptionally narrow, and I
suppose Heron was exceptionally cross, even for him. The omelette was
burnt, he said, and after pishing and tushing over it for a moment or
two he shouted to the overworked waiter, giving his plate so angry a
thrust at the same time that it collided violently with mine, and the
offending omelette ricochetted into my lap.

Heron's apologies indicated far more of anger than contrition, I
thought; but they led to conversation, at all events, and as he lived
in the Hampstead Road we walked a mile or more together after leaving
the restaurant. It was the beginning of companionship of a sort for
me, and if we did not ever become very close friend